


But When the Dawn Comes Up

by mothi



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: this takes place a little while before they board the dutch trawler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 20:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13554672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothi/pseuds/mothi
Summary: Gibson dies on the beach.





	But When the Dawn Comes Up

It was one bomb, just one, the tell-tale whistle, the shriek of the bomber and then – after the silence, endless and heavy with gasping breath in the cocoon of his shielding arms – the roar against his eardrums a few metres away down the beach, and finally the white buzz that muffled and blurred the world beyond his sweaty palms.

He lifted his head. His hair was falling into his eyes, strands stringy with sweat and sand and seawater. His left knee ached where he’d fallen on it.

“Oh, Christ,” someone was saying, from a ways behind him, down by the waves. “Oh, Jesus, oh, Christ, oh Jesus God in Heaven –”

There was a noise to his left. An animal sound, gasping for breath, strangled and choking. He pushed himself to his knees, wiping the sweat from his eyes, turned his head around.

There he was, the man from the beach, lying as though he was resting on the grey sand, with his head turning fitfully from side to side and his chest jerking up and down and his hands, both of them, grasping loosely at the hole where his navel had been. His mouth was making the animal sound, and there was blood all over the sand, a spray of dark red, wine-red, that was turning black as it soaked deeper. He saw the man’s head lift, drop back, lift again, his eyes wide and white, like a dead animal by the side of the road, and the whole time making that half-noiseless keening sound as he clawed at the splintered bones of his lower ribs that glistened white in the sea of red.

He felt his feet moving, as though they weren’t attached to his legs, felt the jolt in his knees as he dropped to the sand beside the man, his hands hovering uselessly in the air above his ruined chest. The man was making aborted gagging sounds, arms flopping back to the ground and half-rising again, his fingers spasming erratically, glossy red to the knuckles. Down the beach, someone was screaming.

“Hey,” he heard his voice say, “you’re gonna be ok, you’re fine, you’re fine, don’t –”

He heard the other man, the Highlander, appear behind him, heard the intake of breath. The man from the beach was staring straight into his eyes, his mouth open and silent now, the blood spilling thick and red out over both their hands.

“Get me a stretcher,” he said, without turning his head. “Get me a – get a medic, a – fuck, a surgeon, anyone –”

“No point, mate,” the Highlander said. Now he turned and stared at him, his hands slippery and hot, and he snapped, “Get me a _fucking_ stretcher!”

He didn’t wait to see if the Highlander had gone. He turned back to the man from the beach and started to peel back the tattered layers of fabric from the crater, his fingers shaking and slick with blood. The man made a choked sound and scrabbled weakly at his hands, his eyes rolling back so the whites stood out starkly against his bloodless face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ve got to –”

The man seized his hand. His grip was vicelike, the force of his shakes rattling his arm so his whole body trembled. He was staring at him, his mouth forming words that were snatched away before they could pass his blue lips. He leaned in closer, tilted his ear towards the man’s mouth, the sound of his heart jumping in his veins and his own breath almost drowning out the stuttering voice.

“P –” the man was saying. “P – P – Ph – Ph –”

And then his mouth stopped moving, and his body stopped shaking, and his eyes drifted past Tommy’s to stare far away into the distant sky.

He didn’t take his eyes away for a long time. Only the sound of the Highlander returning made him lean back, letting the man rest on the sand, his dark eyes staring sightlessly into the place where Tommy’s had been.

“Sorry about him,” the Highlander’s voice said, and a hand rested briefly on his shoulder. “Least it was quick.”

Tommy leaned back across the man’s body and picked up the dog tags lying on his collarbone. He wiped the blood away with a thumb, read the words printed into the metal.

“Gibson,” he said out loud. “His name was Gibson.”

“He fought for his home, right?” the Highlander said. His voice was slightly muffled, as though he had his back to him. “For king and country.”

Tommy didn’t say anything. He stood up from Gibson’s body and looked out over the waves, and the blood was cold on his hands. He felt the Highlander leave his side, but he stayed where he was, listening to the rasp of the waves on the shore, the distant boom of shells. The taste of metal in his mouth.


End file.
